Settled State

The frantic brush stroke life suits us.

Splattered across canvases and inelegantly scattered.

Toying with the task of connecting disparate strings,

the cluttered becomes ever more so massacred,

untraceable to the eye clothed or rendered naked.

Perfectly exposed is a tendency to decompose.


Palette of unrelated colors mingling,

as we’re extracting from the essence of together’s definition.

Characteristically do I tremble in undertows

birthed from decisions made when caution lashes out.

Desperate to feel and it only breeds haste.

Unconscious by the harmful blows I dealt to myself.


She carries on her father’s habit of disappearing.

He burdens up with a mother’s quieted interior.


Packed bottles line up the living room.

Speak too loudly and the glass might just crack.

Tensions ripple across the statuesque face of youth,

captured in wrinkles and proof of the aging accelerated beyond its date.


Exhausted from counting the loose ends untied;

the brush strokes magnified,

would the painter split the brush in half?

In realizing the pitfalls dotted in as if by design,

yet never knowing the difference between fate and choice,

a sword would cleave straight through,

split into two and the wholes would be bent to whole again

without a common mark to trace to conclusion.


We adopted a habit of backing down from the fights;

from hiding away into a night,

speaking softly to not wake the problems up,

and in fright do we see how in our dreams

they’ve multiplied sky-high to tower over domains.


No white picket fence,

no two-story home,

no place on this earth where our hells are at rest.

No absolute find,

no storybook end,

no resolution where we share the same bed.


Buried below,

concealed so long,

we come to find what we pushed quickly aside.


All the dilemmas that were used at the start

to raise us from the ground and back to:

We are as the same as what we faced

but were too stuck on breathing to notice.


She adopts her father’s habit and vanishes.

He lives his mother’s life and dives into silence.

~

(Mitch ❤ )

Bringing a Gun to a Missile Fight

Details, details;

the chasmic microscopic I’ve seen you lost into.

Travel maps with knife lines

haphazardly making the outline of escape plans.

Embedded in the flesh or mind or otherwise,

the hypotheticals never exit fantasy realms.


I’ll improvise as I go through all of the lies,

no different than the times I covered for each disguise.

Which mask I face today is a Russian roulette game.

Spin the bottle with the melodrama and cross fingers.


The temperature of the room bends at your beck and call.

Rise it or lower it to set preferred benchmarks.

Somewhere above or below am I rocketing to nowheres,

far below or above where a shifting standard sits.


Too close and too far away leaves rope burns to adorn us,

for here it is are we tethered to nebulous experimentation:

Of what could be when the incompatible is forced to compatible,

ignoring the volatility of conflicting atomic structures.


If nothing else at all can be said,

the trading of elements had a certain thrill;

wondering if those eyes will sink me or open up an ocean

and along I swim in search of imaginary lighthouses.

Maybe the rudder was shattered at the starting line

with a fire set in the engine before any motion began.


Yet if I am being honest with myself;

douse the carpet in gasoline and let loose the match.

Close the hatch to ensure I’ll engulf the particles completely.

When my mouth relents to speak it will enshroud us in flames,

glorifying the hideously beautiful entanglement of viruses.


Yet if I am being honest with myself;

the aching bones of desire feed a starving appetite.

Blemishes are makeup to embellish the pointless unkempt.

Tearing out every strand of hair only to feel a thought;

that if you’d do this to me, it has to mean you love me.

That if you’d want to maim me, it must mean that you care.

If you’d let me wilt away in a blaze,

it has to mean we’re to be as one.


It lets me believe I’ve won.

Regardless of the right or wrong.

Maybe I’m crazily undiscovered by you.

~

❤ Mitch

Observed

Augmentation of the overhead lights.

Let the sweat flow

while stood in a crowded state of alone.

An empty room be the coliseum for clashing motives.

Act or reckon with it;

act or hesitate in the street.


The self encased in overhanging lamps,

domineering in their limitless eyesight,

the mind obtuse when consigned to view abuse around every bend.


Strangers do not pass these days;

they linger in each step.

They see ambulance sirens in papercuts,

a push away from clicking away at decomposition,

prepared for the public’s ridicule.


Slink through the alleys but shadows are but temporary,

a comfort disintegrated in circadian woes.

Forced to play fact or fiction in every interaction.

Flipping coins to guess where best to place trust,

but every result hits with the head landing six feet down.


Please shut off the sun.

I know someone’s arching them.

Turn down the bright, wide diatribe.

I hear it in its unspoken tongues,

reading disapproval against approval,

where libel’s dripping in syllables,

Trickling down the artifice until rotted away do I stay,

a skeleton for everyone to tuck into the crevices.


Keep the door closed and locked tight.

My eyes have grown sore of the unwavering light.

~

❤ Mitch

My Sweet Security

Choke on the self-ordained salvation.

Crawling back to ache out of devotion;

a desire to dismantlement in servitude to greater wholes

as this hole uncovers new unexplored lows.

Maintain steady gaze contact to forward motion.

No mimicry; no glancing at another’s paper.

Keep those hands idly sitting by.


The scratch of a knock may not have been there at all,

or the voices on the other side of the locked door.

Claws against rotted wood bid their time.

The confused stoic has their stance in proposed defiance

to forget the state of limbs rendered petrified by circumstance.

Bent on a reliance to brush away rushing quakes,

forget to forgive the failures of history’s conditioning.


Safe and well;

we’ve got you tucked inside this cell.

Safe and well;

We know you’ll never tell.

safe and well;

Make the bed quietly now.

until then

when you’ll spiral out of head.


Engineered purposelessly by arbitrary faults.

Now thusly are consumed every part never of you.

A decade of chewing force-fed falsehoods

leads one to be what they’ve never chosen to feed on.


Imagery of reality is immaterial;

sleight of hand expands the ounces an enemy eye criticizes.

Interaction directs its objective to cyclical deprecation

and ever further analysis of the omnipresent wrongs.


Beautiful is the pain of induced introspection:

To never return home sober; devoid of words to say.

Stumbling about the block when drugged under pity.

The genuine are all snakes dolled up in suits and dresses.

Diving headfirst into the pit is depression’s favorite coin flip;

here emerges broken when battered beyond its bounds,

bitten from head to toe until indistinguishable mass.

Here is where experience is said to come;

Excuse the harm as deserved.

Excuse the scars as earned.


You’ll see more to condemn regardless of the actual.

Too often is it misunderstood;

the certainty was never able to unseat belief,

for belief is deeply rooted and rigid versus truth.


Stay safe and well;

we see every time you fell.

Stay safe and well;

we gave these problems for yourself.

Stay safe and well;

tuck into the privacy of your hell.

Until when

you’ll spiral towards the end.

As was predicted.

As we all saw.

As we all knew.

~

❤ Mitch

Buried, Unburied

Here comes the familiar shadow,

on schedule for temporary malfunctions.

Stepping off the dock with purpose in relaxed steps;

a rehearsed motion to proceed into deconstruction.

The same greeting at the doorstep.

ushered in to sit and stare off into the back of my skull,

laser-like precision undermining defenses,

leaking out the lies of positive mindsets

drying on stained linoleum next to yeast lakes and small mistakes.


Shake hands to reach agreement;

let the nadirs inhabit the page again.

Swipe a pen left and right as a dance held by a string,

playing puppet master over trauma that dictates how it roves.


It’s all too common to shatter routine’s grip.

A choking grasp is too frequent to voice objection,

but a lover’s hug that shows meaning

and the reasoning behind the screaming quiet of the room.


Open up for the familiar shadow.

Notebooks strewn across without weight to bear it down,

be it metaphor or literal or caught between,

convinced of the veracity of harm when asked for,

but unsure why it’s requested beside an opportunity to thrive;

to catch the spotlight upon the crude language of my wrists,

placing all hope onto a fragile medium

where slow suffocation is a destiny

and I’m losing the argument against it.


Welcome the familiar shadow as it arrives.

Patchwork prose is enough to clog the blood.

Unleash the limitations and the reoccurring thoughts will leech.

Cross fingers and believe it leads to peace.

~

❤ Mitch

Spiral! Spiral! Spiral!

I’m an explorer for what I want to know,

yet perceiving only wrongs in glances and sentences.

Here sat at an impasse between your realities

as I choose demise between falsehood and aching truth.


I rely on you to say

If there’s explanation required behind masks

or the expressions are exactly the whole of their parts.

I’ll be sapped at command in waiting rooms,

transferred to accompany your loving indecision.


Waved hands beckon to everywhere nonspecific.

I long to uncover the somewhere I find in you

when I swear a shine hits a gaze a certain way,

sparse enough evidence to hold steady the art of fantasy.


I rely on you to say

if this conversation tone is steps closer to rest,

or the sound of an abating echo discovering oblivion.

Maimed in self-throes in tangled motivations,

I’ve but traces to affection buried in dried blood,

writing judgement across for what is and what is not,

neither seen in an eye beyond mine.


The butcher’s hand is my own device

to excavate the best as if to stave off a flooding ship,

laying to the floor until a skeleton remains.


I rely on you to say

if this is the beauty I’m meant to portray

or if I wasn’t even noticed in flesh or otherwise,

proposing prose to the concept of you,

never attainting the attention of the person,

but the act ahead of actuality.


To make a judgement call off of emptiness,

I’ll improvise our interactions.

The nothingness is enough to savor me

as it drains me further still.

~

❤ Mitch

Model Citizen Living in a Model Town

Here comes the fall down.

Lower the body finds itself,

ever further than prior reaches,

in ceaseless descension to bottommost echelons.


A decline to rockier bases,

fistfuls of gravel for fruitless climbing to discover an edge.

Disheveled surfaces reduced to window dressing.

Sharp intonations of agony at the behest of jagged crevices

are the cushions at the end of a day’s struggle towards the dawn’s glimmer.

Wounds proceed unreconciled,

but a facet of reality of regions beneath,

unable to be noticed as more than a breath’s absent purpose.


Braced for the cyclical tumble wrapped in self-pity,

post-it note therapy,

ugly coping weapons to pave over discard,

the burn of asphalt solutions an unclean reunion at trauma’s doorstep.


Awake in awareness of a faltering glow.

Depleting sustenance births serrated ideas

sliding hacksaws along a troubled staircase winding wherever else,

never attainting anywhere else;

a regression to starts that never truly begin,

and endings accelerate to their rehearsed consequences.


Serrated ideas impose a warforged hold,

prowling the lanes of asphalt solutions,

shuttering infrastructure that desperately cloaks shattered frames,

stores emptied of reserves in a cry for rationing,

all the brightness cascading to a familiar background bereft of aspiration.


It concludes to commence again.

In this, it is a failure of being.

It is an acceptance of the mediocrity of normalcy.

Off to experience sunsets in negative;

A failure to live.

~

( Mitch ❤ )

Fix Me Up, Darling!

Dimly lit

cause & effect scenarios.

Invisible hand guiding.

Shapeshifters of fluctuating fantasy.

Cyclical lack of drama

to salvage the twilight

when the doldrums await in the morning

as they always have and always will.


Escape to an escapade,

disguises handed liberally,

history abused sufficiently,

drained of potential impermanence.

It sits in the bed to wait.

It twists its toes in anticipation.


The doldrums are calling for a punch in,

beckoning per usual.

Dim the lights,

decompress,

and remember the guilt

the moment after the joy.

~

( Mitch ❤ )

Update: Present, Future, All of the Above

Well, hello there. It’s been a hot minute since I’ve checked in here, hasn’t it? After attempting to return to my usual posting habits, I lost track of things and inevitably shifted heightened focus to my Instagram habits. However, at a certain point, I would definitely enjoy offering new poems on here on a regular basis. There’s still plenty I have yet to share and many more that I am still creating, so there’s certainly no shortage of material to sort through. What it currently boils down to is a matter of establishing a routine, regaining consistency, and then maintaining both of those factors.

Outside of this resolve, I have a lot of news to share. Primarily, I’d like to introduce you all to a novel aspect of my creating journey: a shop! A few months back, I began a series of drawings with accompanying poems on larger slices of paper. These could then be fitted into a small picture frame for display. I’ve decided to move forward with my initial hopes of selling them by using KoFi’s built in store capabilities. As of right now, four of the eight Frames series pieces are available on the shop tab! Each one possesses a unique poem and drawing, handmade using pen ink.

Secondly, to circle back to my Instagram account: I am nearly at 1,000 followers! This milestone would be impossible without massive support from the poetry community of WordPress and Instagram. I owe my thanks to all of those that have shown such incredible support throughout this journey, as you are all the reason why I continue to aspire for greater things. I greatly enjoy writing, and because I have encountered so many amazing people by doing so, I feel more motivated to push onwards. Hopefully this goal can be hit by the end of the year! That’d be an absolutely insane gift.

To those that still check this website; you are awesome. I know I am very unreliable these days when it comes to getting new content up here, but I can assure you that I’ll get around to it soon enough. A lot of stuff is changing, and there will be further projects to come. Thank you for sticking around. Time to close the year off strong!

~

(Mitch <3)

Did the Forest Ever Grow?

Weapons come undone as a stray glance empties my ammunition.

Armed with rehearsal,

I’m reminded of the cold embrace of insecurity

that possibility pierces straight through

when I dare to place a thought behind your eyes.

An unexplored galaxy lies somewhere out of observation

that no level of telescopic reality can define.

Limited to the infinite thinning tunnel of secondhand guesses,

let reason slip into the wind that sets forward poorly aimed ambitions.


Not a leg to stand on beside the crutch henceforth abused

where I dictate direction to a singular option

based off of the emotion that fails to exit from the boundaries of action.

Flowered sentences sprout the prose the ear salivates for,

ever failing to see replication in how a step forward equals a step retreating;

a wanting hand receives no return;

a plan to silence the silence nullifies all sound.


It’s turbulence in nothingness

with the apparent dismantled,

relishing in manufactured revelations

only brought to form in twilight telephone calls with loneliness on the line.

It’s a sign to be uncovered in quieted inquiries;

the understated aftermath of a carefully unbalanced conversation,

artfully articulated yet blank enough for distance.

It’s a sign to hear in music that screams connected names,

yet come the inevitable skips on wax, I’m fumbling to justify

how your little details are but the sum of their parts

and the tale they spin is what I use to fulfill the empty spaces.


It’s all I already know but refuse to truly know,

and now having sights set on the unsubstantial incorporeal,

I craft adoration for the invisible,

constructing ghosts out of deceased concepts,

living a forever pretend story immersed in allegory

where the meaning I placed into rehearsal relies on what you would never do;

what you would never say;

what you would never see;

but what I’ll always try to make,

for it’s the best I’ll be able to take:

A petrified crutch on a maimed limb.

It won’t last much longer.

~

( ❤ Mitch)